


What Honest Words

by Sibilant



Series: Inception Bingo 2016 [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, Fever Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take one new relationship and one experimental compound. Combine together and shake well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Honest Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ‘fever dream’ square on my bingo card. The title is a partial lyric from Iron & Wine's (haha, what else?) Fever Dream.
> 
> Many thanks to kedgeree for the quick and thorough beta! Any and all remaining mistakes are my own.

As much as Eames enjoys teasing Arthur about his limited imagination, he will never deny that there is a comforting solidity to Arthur’s dreams. Some dreamers create levels that bring to mind impressionistic watercolours - luminous and beautiful, too delicate to be real. Others approach levels like they’re building a hyperrealistic house of cards, filling them with perfect overwhelming detail, until they’re liable to collapse at the first unexpected stressor. Arthur, in contrast, has a knack for imbuing his dreams with a feeling of weight, a sense of surety as steady as his aim, and maintaining them, even under extreme stress.

Combined with his ability to suppress any and all of his projections, and his peak physical health, it makes him an ideal candidate for testing new and experimental Somnacin blends.

“Guinea pig,” Arthur says. “It makes me an ideal guinea pig. Call it what it is.”

“Ah, but a highly attractive, highly intelligent guinea pig,” Eames says. “One who is always well-reimbursed for taking on the risk of trialling new mixes and advancing dreamshare progress for all.” He grins when Arthur snorts. “I believe this is the part where you tell me that flattery will get me nowhere.”

“I could say that,” Arthur agrees, “but then I’d be lying,” and Eames’ grin widens.

They’re in bed together, but they aren’t naked, nor are they angling to become so. It’s partly because of the heat - it’s the peak of summer in Cordoba, and midday to boot, the sun so relentlessly hot that just the thought of enticing Arthur into a round of sweaty, athletic sex is exhausting. Mostly, though, it’s because this is something they do now: spending time together, talking, without their thoughts turning automatically to indecent acts.

Eames never would’ve pegged Arthur - he of the blunt and economical words - as the type. Then again, he never would’ve pegged Arthur as the type to enjoy musical theatre (conversation-that-didn’t-turn-to-sex #4), or be an avid reader fantasy sagas either - especially not the sort that prioritised painfully detailed worldbuilding descriptions over masterful prose and dialogue (conversation-that-didn’t-turn-to-sex #9). But therein lies the delight of discovery that is part and parcel of new relationships, Eames supposes.

“Okay,” Arthur is saying now. “So what’s this compound?”

Eames holds up the vial so it catches the light just so, amber liquid gleaming. “According to Luisa, this blend is formulated to give the dreamer complete control over the dream.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “But we already do.”

“No, what we already have is complete control over _creation_ of the dream,” Eames replies. “Luisa was quite specific about that. The two of you would get along famously, I’m sure.”

“Ha,” Arthur says, dryly.

Eames flourishes the vial again. “What this apparently does is give the dreamer an unprecedented level of control, right down to suppressing what other dreamers can bring in. In other words, no more rogue projections or other subconscious surprises.” He raises his eyebrows at the way Arthur immediately sits up at attention. “I thought that might interest you.”

“It doesn’t really sound like a _shared_ dream,” Arthur says, even as he holds his hand out for the vial, eyes curious. Eames hands it to him. “And it’d be useless for extraction, unless you can somehow give free rein to the mark’s subconscious, and no one else’s.”

“It’d have fairly limited use in extraction, true,” Eames says. “But it’d be incredibly useful for recreational dreamshare, especially with inexperienced, first-time clients. A fully immersive virtual reality experience, without the risk of clients mucking things up with— oh, I don’t know, psychotic shades and runaway freight trains, to name some examples entirely at random.”

Arthur gives him a chiding look, sidelong, and rolls the vial between his fingers. “Speaking of random, it’s an interesting coincidence, that I say I’d like to go to Spain, and you just happen to know a chemist in Cordoba who’s developed a new compound and is willing to pay to have it tested by experienced dreamers.”

“That _is_ interesting.” Eames nods blithely. “An amazing coincidence.”

Arthur scoffs. “You know, you’re lucky I find your opportunistic mercenary ways amusing. What were you going to do, charge her a finder’s fee?”

It isn’t a bad idea, actually. But—

“Ah, no.” Eames holds up a finger. “For your information, I didn’t approach Luisa.”

“Oh?”

“I may have mentioned to Yusuf that I was going to be your travel companion in Spain,” Eames pauses to savour Arthur’s smile at the euphemism, “and Yusuf may have mentioned it to Luisa. Nevertheless, _she_ got in touch with _me_.”

“Why didn’t she just contact me directly?” Arthur asks, with skeptical amusement.

“Well, she’s never met you before, has she? She knows your reputation, but it’s still rather awkward, asking someone you’ve never met to trial your unauthorised, experimental drug. She thought maybe I could put in a good word for her, help her bypass the queue, as it were.” Eames stretches, tucks his arms behind his head. “She is, along with some other people, under the impression we’re partners - in the professional sense of the word.”

Arthur’s smile falters.

“I see,” he says, after a moment. He stares down at the vial for a long, long moment, then climbs off the bed, reaching for his notebook and his mobile. “I’m gonna have to speak to Luisa myself before going ahead with anything.”

 _Oops,_ Eames thinks, watching him duck out into the adjoining living room. It might’ve been a bit of a misstep there, talking about being partners only a few minutes after making fun of Cobb. Ah well. They can talk about later, when Arthur is less likely to be in a snit. Assuming he _is_ in a snit. It’s sometimes hard to tell with Arthur, even now.

Eames lies back on the bed, fanning himself with a brochure, and listens to the rise and fall of Arthur’s voice as he gets in contact with Luisa, his footfalls as he paces about. When Arthur passes the open bedroom door, Eames sees the trickle of sweat streaking his jaw, and wonders if the heat is finally, _truly_ getting to Arthur. Half a decade of using Mombasa as a semi-permanent home base has acclimated Eames to the heat, but Arthur appears to be having a harder time with it. His skin has been more or less constantly flushed since they arrived, his clothes sticking to him in damp patches within hours of him getting dressed. The air conditioning has only been of so much assistance, thanks to the two extended power outages they’ve endured in as many days. And yet, Arthur hasn’t uttered a single word of complaint. Eames may be the Englishman, but he and Arthur seem to be evenly matched in the stiff upper lip department.

Thirty solid minutes of talking later, Arthur steps back into the bedroom, PASIV in hand. He plucks his sweat-soaked shirt away from his body, expression still too controlled.

“I want to go down on my own first,” he says, briskly. “Just for—” he pauses, calculating, “—an hour or two. Make sure there aren’t any adverse side effects. Luisa said she’s already completed that phase, but I want to make sure. If I don’t kick myself out, reset the timer and come down.”

Eames touches the back of Arthur’s wrist as he sets up the PASIV. The grim set of Arthur’s mouth softens almost immediately, although it’s nowhere near the relaxed smile he was sporting less than an hour ago.

“Any requests for the dream level?” Arthur asks, without looking up.

Eames eyes him. “Make it somewhere cold,” he says finally. “Anywhere except Moscow.”

“Antarctica?” Arthur says, only half in jest. It’s somewhere Arthur has visited, but Eames has not, although he’d like to (conversation-that-didn’t-turn-to-sex #3).

“Perfect.” Eames shifts aside, making room for Arthur to climb onto the bed, the PASIV between them. He places his finger on the button and waits. When Arthur nods, Eames musters up the most syrupy tone he can manage, saying, “I’ll see you in your dreams,” just to pull a groan and a reluctant half-smile out of Arthur before his eyes drift shut.

 

* * *

 

Precisely two hours later, Eames resets the timer on the PASIV, and goes down into the dream.

He’s shared dozens of dreams with Arthur over the years, knows the way his mind tends to combine inspiration from a multitude of sources, just like the Cobbs taught him. Eames fully expects to open his eyes onto one of Arthur’s pet impossible structures, something inspired by the Alhambra, perhaps, since Arthur has been making noises about visiting it; Eames imagines Escher-esque belvederes and soaring arches, mazes modelled on decorative arabesques, all of it rendered in blue and white Antarctic ice.

What he gets, however, is a surrealist cinema set piece brought to life.

The landscape (for lack of a better word) is an endless expanse of blank white nothingness, in which… things - thoughts, or abstract concepts - flare into existence without warning, more colour or sound or taste than actual _forms_ , before vanishing just as quickly. The air is eerily still, with an oppressive humidity that’s absent topside; hot Cordoba may be, but in the manner of opening the doors of a blast furnace, rather than stepping into a sauna.

“What in the name of—” Eames says, and the syllables shiver into being in the air, translucent shades of purple and green that _smell_ like an augmented sixth chord.

Eames backs up, startled, then stumbles as the ground lurches beneath his feet, sending him straight into a cloud of dread. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like: anxiety sweeping over him like chilly fog, making his vision go grey at the edges. Eames turns away with a shudder.

Something has gone wrong, clearly. With the mix, with Arthur, or both. It’s hard to work through the hows and the whys, though, because the dream keeps tilting on its axis, sending Eames careening from one direction to another, from one _emotional state_ to another. He’s tossed from chest-tightening panic to gut-wrenching mortification to plummeting despair, then back around again, with hardly a moment to breathe, let alone think.

It’s beyond disorienting, perplexing, uniformly horrid, until Eames wrenches himself back, takes a tottering step sideways, and ends up brushing against a bright, ephemeral bubble of delight. He staggers to a halt, grateful for the reprieve, as a sense memory washes over him: early morning sun, rumpled hotel sheets, fresh coffee, full lips stretched into a wide smile that shows off crooked teeth.

There’s another surge of delight, all major third chords and apple-red. Not Eames’ memory, then, but Arthur’s. Eames will freely admit that he has a vain streak, but never has the sight - or is it the thought? - of his own smile inspired such joy in him.

Then, from somewhere behind him, he hears:

“What are you doing here?”

Eames turns. Finds himself face-to-face with a wide-eyed, startled Arthur, who he’s certain wasn’t there a second ago.

“Are you the real Arthur or a projection?” Eames asks. Normally, appearing out of thin air is the purview of projections, but given the Yellow Submarine experience he just endured, Eames isn’t ruling anything out.

“If I’m a projection, this formula of Luisa’s is a complete bust,” Arthur says. He’s sweating profusely, even more than he was topside. “It’s supposed to give me _more_ control, not less.” He glowers at the dream with glassy, fever-bright eyes, and— oh. _Oh._

“What,” Eames says, his chest going tight as outrage vies with concern. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, taking an experimental dose of Somnacin when you’re _ill_?”

“I’ve worked while sick before,” Arthur says, blinking rapidly, like he's having trouble focusing. “Somnacin doesn’t have any effect on respiratory or immune functioning, so—”

“ _Arthur,_ ” Eames snaps.

Arthur shifts from foot to foot. “I was— I thought it’d be a good opportunity for me to work some things out.”

“Like what?” Eames stares at him, incredulous. “How to replicate an acid trip? A terrible one?”

As if to illustrate his point, the air around them shifts, becoming an aurora borealis of sickly yellow and green that produces a metal-acid tang on Eames’ tongue when he looks at it straight on.

“This is not what I need,” Arthur says, shaking his head, matter-of-fact. “This is the exact opposite of what I need right now.”

Eames opens his mouth to demand to know _what_ isn’t what he needs right now - what happened to _specificity,_ Arthur - but there’s an odd, wrenching sensation, like the pull of gravity from the wrong direction, and an accompanying wave of nausea. By the time it passes, and Eames manages to reorient himself, Arthur has vanished.

In his place is a dragon, sleek and massive, with gleaming brown scales. It’s pacing around a treasure hoard of truly ridiculous proportions and staring at Eames, eyes narrowed.

Eames takes an automatic step back. But there’s something distinctly… Arthurian about the dragon - something about its spine, or the way it holds itself - that gives him pause. If there was any mythical flying reptile that was capable of having ramrod straight posture, Eames suspects it would be this one.

“I don't know how this happened,” the dragon says, in Arthur’s voice, smooth and deep (albeit magnified tenfold).

“You decided to play guinea pig whilst near-delirious with fever,” Eames says, biting every word out. “That’s how this happened.”

“No.” Arthur shakes his massive head, his inhuman, reptilian eyes still narrowed. “No, I’ve watched you lure in dozens of marks, topside and in dreams. I know how you work. But, somehow, you’ve managed to con me into a relationship anyway.”

Eames stops. “I— _what?_ ”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Arthur says, “ever since you called me greedy.”

“When did I—”

“The other night,” Arthur says, helpfully.

Eames thinks back, brow furrowed. Realisation dawns. “Are you talking about the night you ate all my tapas? _That_ night?”

“It’s what all my exes said, too,” Arthur says, mournful, still circling the pile of gold. “Either that or selfish.”

“If you’re a serial tapas thief, I can understand why.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong,” Arthur says, giving no indication that he heard Eames. “I _am_ selfish. You are, too. That's why I thought this would be easy, that it wouldn't last long. But...” Arthur stops pacing, and settles on top of the hoard, wings drooping. He heaves an enormous sigh, and little curls of smoke emanate from his nostrils. “I didn't expect things to be this good.” His tone is one that Eames generally associates with people who’ve been handed a death sentence. “I didn’t expect things to be good at all, that was practically the _point_ —”

“I’m starting to feel somewhat insulted,” Eames says.

“I don’t want that.” Arthur looks at him with all the miserable earnestness that an overgrown lizard can convey (which, as it turns out, is a lot). “What I want is… God, it’s insane, but I want to give you anything— no, _everything_ you ask for.” He groans. “I don’t know how this happened, it’s fucking terrible.”

Eames considers that. “I think it sounds rather nice, personally.” He edges closer to the gold pile, picks up a trinket box, and gives it a small rattle, wondering what’s inside. “I do like being given things.”

It’s an inadequate response, apparently, because Arthur’s misery intensifies. “What if it turns out that I can’t give you what you want, when we really get down to it?” he says. “What if I’m just fundamentally incapable of compromise, even now?”

“We’ve been doing alright so far,” Eames says. “Haven’t we?”

“We have.” Arthur still sounds utterly wretched. “I seriously don’t know how this happened. Things are so easy, usually. Guys are normally satisfied with what they see on the surface. _You_ , though.” He looks at Eames - or maybe the trinket box in his hand - accusing. His tail lashes the air in agitation. “You keep asking questions. You keep finding ways to— to _dig deeper_. And the worst thing about it is, _I don’t mind_. Part of me actually wants to tell you everything!”

He keeps going in that vein, and Eames stares, bemused, because this is a level of relationship anxiety he wouldn’t have expected from blunt, straight-shooting Arthur. Which is, perhaps, part of Arthur’s point.

Eames looks at his hand, trying to will a gun into existence, preferably something high-powered enough to take out both himself and a dragon. Nothing happens. Damn Luisa and her chemistry competence. It means Eames is stuck here, trying to reason with Arthur and his delirious subconscious, unless he can somehow— Eames stops. Stares up at Arthur as inspiration (of a sort) strikes.

Eames can’t create anything, and Arthur is clearly in no state to give him a kick via standard methods, but perhaps— perhaps Eames can convince Arthur into stepping on him or breathing fire at him. That’ll be one for the books. Eames has never been kicked out of a dream by being roasted alive before.

“I think,” Eames says finally, when Arthur pauses for breath, “that this is something we should talk about topside. When you aren’t a fantasy dinosaur.” He pats one of Arthur’s massive feet (or are they claws? Paws? Eames hasn’t the faintest idea). “I don’t suppose I could trouble you to step on me? Preferably with a fair amount of force, enough to cause instantaneous death?”

“Talking,” Arthur says, in a dark undertone, fixating on the entirely wrong thing.

“Arthur?”

Arthur sighs. “Yes?”

“I would truly appreciate it if you stepped on me.” Eames gestures up and down at himself. “Right now. Fairly hard.”

“Ugh,” Arthur says. “It’s already beginning.”

“Arthur _._ ”

“Alright, _okay,_ ” Arthur says, aggrieved. “ _Yes,_ Eames, I will step on you, because it’s what you want, and I can’t _not_ give you what you want.” He heaves himself up, muscles flexing beneath his scales, and rears back onto his hind legs, wings unfurling.

Eames has never so looked forward to being crushed to death.

 

* * *

 

“Oh God,” Arthur says, once they’re both awake. His skin has turned a sickly white colour, and there’s a thin, unhealthy sheen of sweat at his temples and throat. Eames is reasonably certain that it’s only partly due to illness.

“Oh God indeed.” He touches Arthur’s cheek, which is now as feverish hot as it was in the dream. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Not everyone’s first instinct is to talk about their fears,” Arthur says, staring at some point just past Eames’ shoulder. “Especially not relationship fears.”

“I meant,” Eames says, after a pause, “why didn’t you say anything about feeling ill?”

Arthur blinks. “Oh.”

“I hope you aren’t going to say it’s because you didn’t want to tell me ‘no’.” Eames eyes him. “Because, contrary to what popular media might espouse, devotion of that magnitude is terrifying, not endearing.”

“No,” Arthur says, with a strangled laugh. “No, that’s not why I—” he rubs his face, then looks at Eames, sheepish and apologetic. “I didn’t see the point in saying anything because I was thinking about booking another hotel room. In another hotel.” Another beat, then, with even more apologetic sheepishness: “Maybe in another country.”

Eames processes that. A smile, small but irrepressible, tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You were making plans to run, you mean.”

“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Arthur says. “I mean, I didn’t. In the end.”

“But you were planning on it.”

Arthur nods reluctantly, and Eames’ small, twitching smile stretches into a full-blown grin.

Arthur stares. “What the hell are you smiling at?”

“You,” Eames says, making no effort to corral his grin. “I’m smiling at you. Because if I was in your shoes - and I have been, we both know that - I’d already be in that hotel in another country. But _you_ —” he laughs, equal parts fond and disbelieving. “You dig your bloody heels in. You make a contingency plan to book a hotel room but, in the meanwhile, you decide you’re going to confront your subconscious fear of commitment head on. Christ, Arthur. Only you.” He favours Arthur with a dry look. “You’re lucky I find your particular brand of neurotic commitment phobia charming.”

Arthur is still staring. His mouth works a few times, but nothing comes out, and Eames eventually takes pity on him.

He squeezes Arthur’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you into bed properly.”

“That’s it?” Arthur squints, suspicious. “You’re not going to grill me further about… everything I was saying down there?”

“Oh, I am, believe me,” Eames says, helping him remove the cannula, and shift the PASIV onto the bedside table. “After your fever goes down, and you won’t be able to claim I was taking advantage of you in your delicate state.”

Arthur leers. “I don’t mind you taking advantage of me in certain ways,” he says, retreating to the relative safety of innuendo.

“Mm, what I’ve always wanted. A sickly, sweating, fever-ridden, probably contagious man in my bed.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?” Arthur cranes his head, trying to peer at his reflection in the dresser mirror, and Eames feels a ridiculous surge of fondness for his vanity.

“No,” Eames lies through his teeth. “It doesn’t look that bad.”

Arthur nods, satisfied, and doesn’t resist as Eames helps him under the sheets. “Are you any good at playing nurse?”

“If you mean the nurses you usually encounter in hospital - efficient, with a low tolerance for nonsense, and zero inclination to coddle - then yes, I am excellent at playing nurse.”

Arthur laughs shortly, then catches Eames’ hand. He chews his lip, brow furrowed, dark eyes abruptly pensive. “There are so many ways I could disappoint you. So many ways I could fuck this up.”

“We have a lot in common, then,” Eames says, lightly. “Risk I’m willing to take.”

Arthur nods, shoulders slumped, expression almost comically resigned. “Yeah. Me too. I want—” he struggles for a moment. “I want to try. With you, I want to try.”

Eames smiles, crooked. “What more could I possibly ask for?”

“A lot,” Arthur says immediately. “If you asked me to break into the Louvre, I’d probably start making preliminary plans right now.”

“Fortunately, I can break into the Louvre myself.” Eames pushes at Arthur’s shoulder, until his lying down properly. “And I know how to make a profit on whatever I take, too.”

“You’re an irredeemable criminal.” Arthur’s voice holds zero reproach. He settles back with a small, comfortable sigh. “One of the things I like most about you, you know that?”

“Likewise,” Eames says. He gives Arthur’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Now go to sleep.”


End file.
